on the couch with buddy

Sigh. What is it they say about the best-laid plans?

Today was spent nursing my 8-year-old back to health, rather than taking care of myself. Some days, we just have to do this. God takes our tidy little agenda and tips it upside down like a snow globe, and all the little "appointments" float around like flecks of glitter and fall in entirely different places. My women's group. My quiet time. Blogging. Working on the manuscript. My healing prayer appointment. All up in the air, and then all just gone—buried under a day full of Mike Rowe getting dirty to my son's gleeful delight.

It would be one thing if I did it well—this caretaking thing. I sat on the couch for as long as I could stand it, reading my book in snippets between Mike's bleeps and blunders, and then I was gone. The itch to be productive would not leave me be and I spent the rest of the afternoon at the computer working on blogging issues and research while Buddy sat on the couch watching Mike alone with his fever and his chicken soup.

I wrestle with this parenting thing. With this working full time/writing part time/parenting full time/exercising part time/dieting full time/socializing part time/taxi-driving full time/repeating sixth grade part time schedule I keep. There is not enough time to do it all, let alone do it well. There is fatigue. There is frustration. There is worry. And there is guilt. There is a LOT of guilt. I worry I've not done this mothering thing well. Not really well. And it grieves me. Because I wanted to do it well.

But there is, occasionally, a light that glimmers like a crystal catching the light of the sun at just the right angle. It reflects back to me something of glory. I sit back, my breath caught, and I just look. That glimmer is hope. And the sun is reflecting more and more of it lately. The hope that God will equip. Will restore. Will sustain. Will guide. If only I will listen and follow. If only…

My devotional for today reads:
Trust me one day at a time. This keeps you close to me, responsive to my will. Trust is not a natural response, especially for those who have been deeply wounded. My Spirit within you is your resident tutor, helping you in this supernatural endeavor. Yield to his gentle touch; be sensitive to his prompting. (Jesus Calling, March 18)

Yield to his gentle touch, sensitive to his prompting. I wonder how different today might have looked had I done that. I can't undo it now, so I will not dwell there in regret, but move forward in resolve.

Tomorrow, the snow globe gets re-shaken, and the glitter falls where it may. I can only take it one day at a time. Tomorrow is a new opportunity. To listen. To yield. To follow.

To trust.

To take care.

variations on a common theme

The purpose of life is to live it,
to taste experience to the utmost,
to reach out eagerly and without fear
for newer and richer experience.

Eleanor Roosevelt

spinning versus setting

So, I'm thinking that perhaps the next time it's 5:00 PM and I still have a couple hours of clients to go and I'm getting sleepy, I maybe ought to try the ice water route, instead. Maybe. No reason... (Blink. Blink. Blink. Why am I not asleep yet? Hmmm....)

After an hour spent catching up with emails (after a 12 hour day of clients), an hour spent blog-surfing, and half of an hour spent playing mahjong on my two inch by three inch phone screen, my brain just won't shut off. Or shut up. Which is leaving my husband wondering when I'm going to shut off the light and let him sleep.

It all began with an email from Anne Marie, a very cool and very sweet mom I met this year through my son's class at school. (Interestingly enough, her name is a combination of my and my daughter's middle names. But that's only interesting because it's 1:02 AM and I'm wide awake. But I digress...) After corresponding several times over a project we were working on together for our kiddos' teacher, we'd begun corresponding about blogs and website design, because I'd spent some time poking around her very fun and creative graphic design portfolio.

The topic turned to writing, and that's when this whole mind-spinning-not-sleeping thing began in earnest. Anne Marie told me about a friend of hers, Marla, a local woman who had "authored a few books." My eyebrows raised. I have one of her books. My sister-in-law, who was likewise friends with Marla, had given one to me when she had finished it. Years ago. How ironic was that? I read on, and my eyebrows went up even higher, as Anne Marie recommended to me Ann Voskamp's blog, a holy experience, based on her book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are. Which, of course, was the third time this week someone had recommended her blog to me, and guess what? Yep. I already have the book. ?!?!?

What ensued from there was an hour or more of reading and exploring these women's blogs, and the blogs they were linked to, and the blogs those were linked to, and... you get the idea. 1:25 AM, and still not sleeping.

Here's the thing. Normally, that would have frightened me. Discouraged me. Disenheartened me, if that's a word. (At 1:28 AM, it's a word if I say it's a word.) Normally. But things are not normal around here, anymore. Now, I'm thinking things like, Why not me? Why not now? Why not all the way? Which is really, really cool.

Unless, of course, you're trying to go to sleep.

I'm not any different than any of these women. There is no reason I could not do this, short of just choosing not to try. Out of fear. Out of self-consciousness. Out of complacency.

The truth of the matter is that I have done hard, uncomfortable things before. Many of them were not my idea, but I did them nonetheless, and I lived to tell about them. Obviously. Not one but two master's degrees. (Don't ask. Long, annoying story.) Natural childbirth. (After four hours on Pitocin. Nothing natural about it.) Running a half-marathon, having never run more than a mile before in my life. (Ouch. That's all I have to say about that.) I can do hard things. I just have to set my mind to it.

I am setting my mind. I am pulling it off of its spinning, aimless trajectory, and I am setting it on this path, and I am not letting fear "grab me by the tail and shake me," as my friend Kim quoted to me earlier this week. There is no good reason why, in five years, another woman could not be sitting up at 1:37 AM writing about having been on my blog, not able to sleep because of what it stirred up in her. No good reason.

I'm still not ready to turn out the light, but I'm ready to power down for the night. Six hours of editing await me tomorrow, and you'd better believe the beverage of choice will be caffeinated come morning.

I'll be sure to stop by 3:00PM. Or earlier. Or, perhaps, not...

colla voce—revisiting the title

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with their song still in them.

Henry David Thoreau

As part of my attempt to determine where I am going from here, I have been looking back over the past five years I have spent writing on this blog. When I began writing for it in 2005, I was still grieving having stepped away from singing professionally. I titled the blog "Finding My Voice" because I saw it as an attempt to replace what I believed was lost. It did not take long, however, for me to discover that this new "voice" fit me well, and I changed the title to reflect that change in perspective.

As I contemplate what writing will look like for me now and in the future, and as I particularly contemplate what role this blog will play in that, I have again been thinking about the title, and continue to find it relevant. Colla voce is a musical term which instructs the accompanist to follow the soloist in a particular passage, giving the soloist the freedom to create their own tempo as they interpret the lyrics or the mood of the piece. The soloist is released to hasten or linger as they see fit, allowing themselves to surrender to the creative force within them, unconstrained by the limits of someone else's tempo and pacing.

In order to sing colla voce, the vocalist must have a certain degree of confidence. The vocalist doesn't follow the accompanist, the accompanist follows the vocalist. Rather than following, the voice is now allowed to lead, which requires both a willingness and an ability to do so. The vocalist must step out and sing with authority—they must command the piece, they must be able to be followed. Once that confidence is acquired, they are free to take the piece where they want it to go, in the manner in which they desire.

My daughter is a beginning vocalist. She is timid. She follows the piano—even if the piano is off, unfortunately. She is young, yet—lacking the self-confidence to be in control, too self-conscious to sing out, to create her own tempo, to take the lead. For too long, I've lived my life in this manner—afraid of getting it wrong. Afraid of being laughed at. Afraid of standing out. For too long, I've blended in the background, following someone else's tempo, singing someone else's song. Not any longer.

Our college director used to tell us, when we were learning a new piece, that if we were going to make a mistake, to make a LOUD one. This was the only way, he explained, for him to know what he needed to correct and be able to correct it early before we learned it wrong. I am forty years old now. I am not in sixth grade any longer. Such self-consciousness is not becoming. I must own my voice. My mistakes. My successes. I must take a deep breath and sing out, lest I waste away in quiet desperation, my song dying within me without ever having been heard.

I have a song to sing. A story to tell. A life to live. I will sing it, tell it, live it. I will take command of this composition, and I confidently will set my own tempo, interpreting these passages of life as I see fit within the grander scope of the style of the piece. I will make my mistakes, and I will no doubt make them loudly. But I will keep on making music out of my life, because, in the end, that is what I am called to do. To let no song be left unsung.

This blog will be where I continue to allow myself to "hasten or linger as I see fit," writing about the topics that are important to me in a way that is meaningful to me. If you find meaning in them, as well, please continue to join me. And in the future, keep an eye out for additional venues to appear, as I continue to hone my voice and search for my unique little space in this vast universe of the written word.

Here's to singing out, and seeing where the voice leads!

too late to take it back…

I was all the way out the front door to head to school when the panic hit. What in the world did I just do?!?! What on EARTH was I thinking?

I wasn't thinking. That was the problem. I was reading. I was listening. I was responding. Now, I'm wishing I'd been thinking.

But if I'd thought about it, truth be told, I wouldn't have done it. I wouldn't have set the goals to finish not only my rough draft but THREE formal book proposals by the end of the year. I wouldn't have made the commitment to treat this like a part time job and give it 15 hours per week, minimum. And I wouldn't have taken Chris Guillebeau's advice to "amass a small army" and broadcast it to over thirty of my friends and family for prayer and support. Because NOW that I'm thinking about it, that is CRAZY. And I'm wondering if I can do it. And why on earth I thought I could.

Something got stirred up over these last few weeks and I stepped out in faith and put things "out there" and now I'm wishing a little that they were still the tidy, quiet little pipe dreams inside of my head that a few people knew I entertained but didn't know to what extent my mind went with them. I want to push the little blue "undo" button and have the words disappear and with them my newly-voiced intentions. But it's too late. And that is both a good thing and a bad thing.

It's too late. I've put it out there. You've read it. You know the secret desires and fears of my heart. And you will know whether or not I achieve them. And that is a fearful, vulnerable thing. But I'm tired of living in fear and life-sucking comfort. I'm uncomfortable now. And that will be a good thing, if I live to tell about it.

Of course this is crazy. And impossible. And improbable. And thousands of people do it every year. Why the heck can't I be one of them?

All things are possible with God. Stepping out. Taking risks. Getting uncomfortable. Fighting back against fear and doubt. Putting words on a page. Turning pages into chapters. Turning chapters into books. It is possible.

But not if I don't try.

What in the world did I just do? I thumbed my nose at fear and pushed comfort out of my chair at the computer. I put words down on a page, which is all I am able to do. And as for the rest of it that is out of my hands, I asked for a little bit of help and a whole lot of prayer. Which seemed like a good idea at the time.

And still is now.

leaping

Today is a writing day. Which explains why I've been blog surfing. If you write too, you know what I mean.

Surfing, today, took me back to Jeanette Fulda's blog, where I'd not been for a while. (Truth be told, I've not been anywhere in blogsphere for a while.) I don't know Jeanette personally, but I was drawn to her blog two years ago after reading her weight loss memoir, Half-Assed (which has to be, I must say, one of the greatest titles EVER). She is a delightful writer, with a clear, witty voice, and I was both delighted and slightly jealous to see that TODAY was the release date of her second book, Chocolate And Vicodin: My Quest for Relief From the Headache That Wouldn't Go Away. As a chronic headache sufferer of the 40 year variety, I had to smile and shake my head. (Not at her pain, mind you. That would be bad karma. If you believed in karma.) No, I smiled at her inventiveness and success at writing a book about it. And then, I smiled even bigger.

Why? Because usually this kind of thing would have sent me into despair. What I am thinking? How could I possibly think I could do this? Everything I have to say has already been said. No one wants to hear from me. I'm wasting my time. And so on, ad nauseum. But interestingly enough, not today.

Today, I thought, I could really do this. There's NO REASON on earth why I couldn't do this. This woman lost around two hundred pounds. She wrote and published a book about it. She got a headache. She wrote and published a book about it. If she can do this, you can do this. What on earth are you waiting for?

What on earth am I waiting for? Nothing. At least not today.

I chalk part of the change in my attitude up to having been reading The Art of Non-Conformity by Chris Guillebeau for the last several nights. (The rest I chalk up to a greater work of God within me that I'm not ready to talk about just yet, but which probably includes said book.) I'm half way through the book, and I've already used up half a pad of sticky notes. This is a hearty endorsement. Believe me.One of the very first things Chris urges you to get clear about is determining what are your core life values. I think I could say pretty clearly, without hesitation, that I value adventure, freedom (not of the "you-can't-tell-me-what-to-do-I'm-the-boss-of-me" variety, but of the "I'm-no-longer-bound-and-able-to-choose-what-I-do-from-here" variety), true intimacy, and hope. These are values, among others, that stir within me, creating discontent and sometimes even motivation. But.

But there's a problem. When I look realistically at my life, and the way I LIVE my life, you will see that I clearly value other things more. Comfort. Security. Ease. Protection. Self. Keeping up with the Jonses. I can see it. Can you? You can be honest. It's okay. Because I know you do. And it's time I do something about it. Because it's no wonder there is discontent. That doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure it out. I'm living in a way that is contrary to what I say I truly value and desire. I'm going to need to make some changes.

And I'm going to need to take some risks. Hence this post. I am taking a leap. I am through looking at and treating my writing as a hobby. It is now a part-time job. (With any luck and a lot of prayer, perhaps it will even follow the path of my other "part-time" job which is growing so steadily I cannot contain it.) My goal is to start at a commitment of 15 hours a week spent writing, researching, planning, and/or reading, all directed toward the projects I am currently working on, with the hope of moving it to 20. I don't know HOW I am going to do this. That's two hours per day to start with, increasing to three. And did I mention I have school-aged children, who will be out for the summer. But no worries. Because that is where YOU come in!

I plan to create a weekly email list of prayer support people who are willing to lift up the needs I am experiencing that week. I also plan to post once a week my progress. I'm creating accountability AND an army, all at the same time! If you don't receive the email and would like to be on the list, please leave a comment and let me know, and I will include you happily.

Exhale. Wow. I just said it. I've put it out there.

I've put it out there. I will keep it out there. And I will wait, expectantly, to see what comes back.

Feel free to be expectant with me!

catching my breath

Finally a moment to sit down at my keyboard, and I am without my manuscript and cannot think of a darn thing to write about. Panera is hoppin’ and my meal is finished and my lunchtime-rush limited 30 minutes of free wifi are quickly ticking away, but nothing comes to mind as my body slowly digests the renegade carbohydrates I just scarfed down in order to have time to write. All that blood in my stomach, I suppose. Isn’t that what they say?

A timer goes ignored in the kitchen and a baby screams somewhere across the way and the 20-somethings at the table next to me complain about their boss in hushed but animated tones. Patrons around me come and go, and I put my feet up and settle down into my seat and plan to be here for a while. A chill from the door begins to settle in, and I wish I were closer to the fire. Of course, were I closer to the fire, I would be wishing I were elsewhere. That seems to be the way it goes.

Perhaps it is not so much that I cannot think of anything to write about as it is that I cannot narrow it down. My plate, as usual, is full here as of late. We are back in the physical therapy routine—figuring out school schedules and transportation and what to do for an hour 2-3 times/week while they work at healing the newest debilitating injury. Doctors visits and x-rays and MRIs and massage therapy—there is no shortage of things to write about. Then there was the throwing up second-grader the night before the Valentine party, the weekend spent snorting Lysol and praying none of the rest of us would fall victim to the same vile plague, the upper respiratory crud that has grabbed several of us by the chest and won’t let us breathe. But it’s winter. Everyone is sick. And we, in particular, are always sick. What on earth is interesting about that?

Then again, perhaps it is not so much that I cannot think of anything to write about as it is that there are things on my mind I cannot write about, things I can’t put into words, things that aren’t fit for public consumption. I consider what I could possibly consider as I sit here nursing my luke-warm tea, and I come up with nothing I would possibly feel comfortable exploring in the comfort of my cozy but very public mini-booth at Panera. The tables around the fire are all open now, and I consider moving. An attempt to distract myself, I suppose, from thinking about that which I don’t want to think about, much less write about. I stay put, pulling my sweater around my legs and shrinking and inch or two further away from the radius of the door. Wrapped up and secluded, both inside and out.

The 20-somethings have gone back to work and the baby has fallen asleep and the timer has long since been silenced. But my thoughts are still just as scattered as they were when I first put my fingers to the keys. I consider reaching in my bag for a book, but feel compelled to write since it is the first chance I’ve had in over a week to do so. The urge won’t leave me alone—not now, not ever. It is always there, nagging at me, trying to pull me from whatever it is I am doing at the time. I need to listen to it. I need to give in to it. I need to shut it up, even if just for a few short minutes here at Panera.

My tea is almost drained and my eyelids are getting heavy. Another hour until I pick the injured one up early from school and take her to a new doctor, hoping to find out why the back won’t stop hurting, and what to do in order to fix that. I watch people come and go, and I consider getting up and joining them. I am undecided as of yet, but of this I am certain—I’ve written just about all I can write for today.

ready to break free

This is the most terrifying prospect a human being can face...the Fear That We Will Succeed.

We fear discovering that we are more than we think we are. More than our parents/children/teachers think we are. We fear that we actually possess the talent that our still, small voice tells us. That we actually have the guts, the perseverance, the capacity. We fear that we truly can steer our ship, plant our flag, reach our Promised Land. We fear this because, if it's true, then we become estranged from all we know.

The War of Art
Steven Pressfield

I want to make your life a glorious adventure, but you must seek to know me in greater depth and breadth instead of striving for a safe lifestyle. I know how ambivalent your heart is in all of this: You long for the adventure that a life abandoned to me can be, and at the same time, you cling to old ways because change frightens you. Though you feel safest when your life is predictable and things seem to be under control, I want you to break free and discover the adventures I have planned for you.

Jesus Lives
Sarah Young

Read these both today for the first time. Coincidence? I don't think so.

"the magic of making a start"

When we conceive an enterprise and commit to it in the face of our fears, something wonderful happens... Angel midwives congregate around us; they assist as we give birth to ourselves, to that person we were born to be, to the one whose destiny was encoded in our soul...

The War of Art

one word

I'm not really a copy cat. Really. And, truly, I can't in good conscience be called a copy cat because it's too late to really do the thing right, anyway. So I'm not copying my friend Cindy, who did this really cool Reverb10 thing in December, because it's not December any longer, and I'm not really doing it. Really.

But here's the thing.

I've been looking for this very thing. I just didn't find it in time. I've been in my "it's the end of the year and I need to reflect and regroup" place (though, admittedly, I get in that place several times a year—"It's my birthday, so I need to reflect and regroup... It's the end of the school year, so I need to reflect and regroup…It's Wednesday, so I need…") so when I was looking at Cindy's kick-butt photography (click on her name above to be amazed) and came across her entries for Reverb10, I just about hyperventilated. This was just the springboard I needed. Short, concise prompts, no big book to read, lots to think about. I can do this. Though I won't do one a day, I won't probably even complete them all, and I won't, obviously, get them done in time for them to serve the purpose the creators intended. But I'm good with that. Because they will serve my meager little purpose just fine. And that way, I can't be called a copy cat. (Especially because worrying that y'all would THINK I'm a copy cat would be a form of resistance, and I'm making a new practice of resisting resistance. For today, at any rate…)

SO. Prompt number one: One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you're choosing that word. Now imagine it's one year from today. What would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

One Word

Bittersweet.

My word for 2010 is bittersweet. Bitter. Sharp and disagreeable, causing or showing sorrow or discomfort, characterized by strong feelings of resentment or cynicism—there are things from this past year that have left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Like Naomi changing her name to Mara, I have cried out to God about losses it feels I cannot bear, burdens placed on me I don't wish to carry any further, dreams and plans that didn't turned out the way I dreamt and planned them. I don't wish to live in this land any longer.

Sweet. Agreeable and pleasant, friendly and pleasing, characterized by kindliness and gentleness—there have also been moments that have been gratifying, sentimental, even delightful at times, though that last one might be pushing it a bit. Celebratory moments. Adventurous moments. Hilarious moments. Intimate moments. Bright spots like stars against the backdrop of night. I want to live in this place more often.

Bittersweet captures, for me, the juxtaposition within which I often find myself, despite my best efforts toward contentment and peace. Pleasure mixed with overtones of sadness. You take the bitter with the sweet. Certain things come at the cost of others. This has been the theme of this last year.

I'm pretty over it.

Audacity.

My word for 2011 is audacity. Intrepidly daring and adventurous, recklessly bold, marked by originality and verve—contemptuous of law, religiosity, or decorum. In 2011, I want to have the audacity to finish my manuscript, to love well, to say no when I need to. I want to have the audacity to live authentically, to create courageously, to follow obediently. I want to have the audacity to pursue dreams and passions and not just talk about it, to experience life and not just read about it, to connect intimately and not just dream about it. I don't just want to be courageous. I want to be audacious.

This is what I want to project into 2011.

Audacity. Intrepid boldness. Bold or arrogant disregard of normal restraints.

Behold, I am doing a new thing. See how it rises up.

all’s fair in love and war

Having received duplicates of a book I asked for this Christmas, I returned one and grabbed another book that has been on my list since my writing retreat last May, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. An easy (though convicting) read, I am already half-way through it and I began it yesterday. As I've not really had any time to read, I'm not sure how that happened.

It is one of those books that one should read several times, digesting bits and pieces in bite-size morsels, letting them swish around in your mouth a bit as you linger over the sensation. It is that good. As I am a compulsive eater, however, I tend to read in the same compulsive manner. I am gulping this book down in one fail swoop, and will consider it further much later as it digests.

A question arose, however, as I was reading, that I could just not leave alone, especially given my post from New Year's Morning. As Mr. Pressfield discussed the perils of resistance, with which I have been very familiar this past year, he lighted on a topic that jabbed a stick right into the very place I've been trying to reach. Unfortunately, he does not adequately scratch my itch.Mr. Pressfield is discussing the role of rationalization in resistance, and does, I might add, a very convincing job of it. Because resistance can't show itself in its true form (because we would recognize fear as resistance and thereby feel shamed into action), it must be crafty. Rationalization is one of its tools of the trade. "Resistance presents us with a series of plausible, rational justifications for why we shouldn't do our work." I buy this. Completely. I have even been caught by it, hook, line, and sinker. BUT.

Here is where I get a little conflicty.

What's particularly insidious about the rationalizations that Resistance presents to us is that a lot of them are true. They're legitimate… What resistance leaves out, of course, is that all this means diddly. Tolstoy had thirteen kids and wrote War and Peace. Lance Armstrong had cancer and won the Tour de France three years and counting.

Great. Swell. Despite having children, they accomplished great feats. That's all well and good. BUT WHAT KIND OF FATHERS WERE THEY? (And, for that matter, didn't their children have MOTHERS to look after them? Not to mention probably nursemaids?!?!?)

THAT is the question penned below that last line on page 56 of The War of Art. THAT begs the question I cannot seem to answer for myself. THAT is what causes my spirit to churn and gurgle like an upset stomach when I'm faced with another afternoon of doing everything that must be done for everyone else. I can do what it takes to be a writer of the variety I would like to become. Certainly I know without a doubt I am capable. But at what cost? And to whom?

This is my issue. Competing desires. I want to be a good mother. I want to invest significantly and meaningfully into my children's lives. I want to be fully present and accounted for. AND.

I want to write. I want to go on another retreat and do nothing but write for six days on end. I want to write daily. I want to create and, in turn, be recreated. I want to live in this passion and be true to that which is within me. When I get up in the morning, when I go about my day, when I retire in the evening, THIS is what is on my mind: I want to write-sing-paint-draw-sew-bead-sculpt-meld-CREATE.

And I am having a bit of trouble trying to figure out a way to do BOTH without feeling I am failing woefully at it ALL.

snuggling and sacrifice

It is nearly 11:00 AM on this temperate but grayish and wet New Year's Day, and, oddly enough, I am the only one up. The hubby who stayed up reading after we returned home from our holiday revelry is cozied up in bed next to the seven-year-old, who desperately but unsuccessfully tried to keep up with the almost-twelve-year-olds who intended to stay up ALL night but were found, true to my prediction, sacked out on the couch this morning, unknowingly succumbing to sleep somewhere after movie three. It was a valiant effort, nonetheless.

To say it is unusual that I am the only one up would be a gross understatement. When left to my own devices and not bound by the constrictions of four different calendars, it is quite the norm to find me still in bed while all the rest of my household starves for lack of an ability to get their own bowl out of the cabinet and pour their own milk and cereal. Occasionally the almost-twelve-year-old gives me a run for my money as her body shifts to its adolescent time table, but I can still easily beat her in a sleep-in-off hand's down just about any morning I am given the opportunity.

That is, until Buddy comes and crawls in bed.

Both of my children, I should clarify, are avid snugglers. They love to come into our bedroom after they've awakened and basically make sure that I am awake, too, which is very kind of them, if not entirely misguided. They pull back the covers and burrow through them until they've found my warm body, and then adhere themselves to me in whatever fashion they are able as warranted by my position in the bed. This has been our morning ritual since they were old enough to get out of bed--indeed, Bub even has gone as far as to set her alarm to be sure she gets snuggle time before she has to get ready for school. It is as much of our family's genetic code as ice cream and game nights and hiking adventures and leaving the new toilet paper roll on top of the toilet paper roll holder.

Sometimes, when they've shuffled in with a groggy step and fallen into the bed half-aware, I am blessed with another bit of sleep as their breathing falls mercifully into a deep, deliberate pattern and their bodies are gloriously still. I may not be able to breath or move myself, wedged as I am into the double bed I grew up sleeping in alone and now am forced to share with not one but two to three people and as many cats, but at least they are not moving and if I breathe deeply myself and try to visualize pleasant, spacious places, I can get very close to falling back asleep, myself. Almost.

But I am not always so fortunate. Buddy, who is the true cling-on of the pair, is also a bit, um, shall we say, squirrely, and I know as soon as I hear distinct, rapid footsteps scampering from the bathroom that my evening's repose has expired. No longer drowsy, all hope is gone of his body again becoming static, and I am up for a morning of elbows and knees and whispers and wiggles and sighs and desperate, futile pleas for him to please be still.

They tell me I will miss this.

Truth be told, I tell myself this, as well. It is the only reason I do not lock and bar my bedroom door on a nightly basis. I know I will miss this. Desperately. And so I endure it. And I only groan inwardly as soon as I hear Buster Brown descend from his top bunk across the hall, so that he will not ever know I am not as thrilled as he that he is awake and ready to snuggle. But it is a bittersweet snuggle, as I once again, for the first time of many that day, sacrifice that which I desire for the ever more important desires of my children.

We are nearing 11:30 and there is still no sound from upstairs. Apparently starting a movie at 2:00 AM was enough to keep Buddy quiet for his father this morning, and they are still warm and cozy in MY bed that I could no longer lay still in for lack of space and breathing room. (Literally.) Rather than fight for cramped, sweaty, broken sleep this morning, I have done a new thing in this new year. I have arisen before my entire family and come down to the kitchen and sat my butt in front of the computer and I've done something I WANTED TO DO. For once. Perhaps this bodes well for the new year. Perhaps this is an omen. Or perhaps this is just a fluke. After all, it is much easier to rise before everyone else when I am rising at 10:00 in the morning. Which is just about right for me...

Parenting and writing do not flow easily for me out of the same space. Somewhere between all the work of taking care of people, which is done both professionally and personally, I fear I have lost my creative self. The writer. The musician. The artist. I know intellectually they are truly not lost--just hibernating, perhaps, not enjoying the cold, gray winters of Ohio any more than I do. But I miss them. Desperately. And I feel incomplete without them. And I've still, after almost twelve years, not yet determined how to balance that which I need with the needs of my children. And I've yet to comprehend, in my own life and beyond, where the mystery of death to self and the reality of taking care of one's self intersect.

For a fleeting moment I hear a bird singing outside my window, and just as quickly as it came, it is gone. Thank God for temperate, unseasonable days that bring us out of hibernation and restore to us that which we were created to do. Even if only for one, quiet, up-before-everyone-else morning.

what happened to my day OFF???

I'm supposed to be working on my manuscript today.

You can obviously see how well that is going.

So far, on my one full day per week to write, I have had to: finish hemming my daughter's skirt for her concert tomorrow (after a 10 minute search for where the kitten had batted the spool of thread I was using), narrow down speech meet choices for my son from 50 poems to three, pick up after the morning tornado, finish my homework for group tonight, email my daughter's math teacher about her grade, and make my to-do list for the rest of the day. It includes: working out so I don't gain even MORE weight, ironing my daughter's outfit for the concert, helping Buddy pick one of the three poems, making stops at Kohl's, Walgreen's, and Kroger, talking to my daughter about breaking the garbage can lid in a fit of anger (without having a fit of anger myself), supervising my darling children as they empty and re-load the dishwasher, getting a shower, and reviewing my materials for group tonight.

Ah, motherhood.

Who the heck signed me up for this?

lucky 13

In my whopping 13th post of the year, I thought I would update everyone on the state of affairs 'round here.

First, turns out Latte is a HE, not a SHE. We ate a lot of crow for that one. He is still holding a bit of a grudge. Here he is, all filled out and healthy:

Next, in a moment of sinus-infection-induced insanity, I allowed my daughter to bring a kitten home from our mother-daughter weekend. Falls under the "It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time" category. Here is Zipper, or the Kamikaze Kitten, as I've taken to calling him. (He also responds to "HEY!!! GET OFF THE TABLE!!!!!" Though not very well.)

We went to New England this summer--did Niagara Falls, the Adirondacks, the White Mountains, and Acadia National Park all in about 12 days. Here is our family at Acadia:

Finally, I turned 40 this year, on the beach at Sanibel Island. Not a bad way to go.

I've been writing, though not for the public eye just yet. My manuscript is at 45,000 words. The goal is between 70 and 80,000. My desire is to get back to blogging, because I miss it. Twice a week in 2011 is my goal. Was my goal for 2010, too, but who's counting?

So, that's the last six months in a nutshell. Bub is still flip-flopping at the gym, sings in a Christian rock band (I know, she's 11--craziness, right?), and is in middle school. Buddy is in Taekwando, loves him some Legos, and is in 2nd grade. The hubby has a new job, I still have a job, we still have a house, and all is right with the world.

Here's to getting back to writing for no other reason than just because.

grinding gears

The transition from writer back to mother and wife is not going smoothly--I've ground a few gears along the way and was afraid I might have dropped the transmission at one point yesterday. Transitions aren't easy for me anyway, but this one was a bit harder than I expected. I keep seeing images of The Convent superimposed over my life--faces at the table, the view out my window, my happy little desk with my happy little laptop--I can't seem to be fully here yet. I don't want to be fully here yet.

I want to go back to that space--that space where I was free to write for hours on end without interruptions, where nothing at all was required of me, where all that was in my head finally oozed out my fingers onto paper and I was free of it and it of me. I liked that space. I liked the person I got to be there. There is no space here. What am I going to do about that?

There is much work to be done. Next on the agenda is creating a macro or master document, then printing the manuscript in its entirety. Then the first round of revisions begins, and then a second printing, this time to give to a few trusted friends to tear apart, hopefully with grace and a great deal of tenderness. (Any volunteers?) While they rip my baby to shreds, I will create a formal book proposal, and then I will do another revision and then send the proposal and a few sample chapters out to the wolves to be devoured and eaten. Sounds like a good time. Remind me again WHY I wanted to do this?

I need to go to bed. Tomorrow we hit the ground running--43 hours of clients to make up for being out for a week. The past week already feels like a distant memory--remember that time, like, three years ago, when I went on that writing retreat? I should really do that again sometime.

Soon.

now what?!?!

I am finished with the entire rough draft, with two and a half hours left until dinner. As I am too over-caffeinated to take a nap, I don't know what to do with myself!!!

matins

Almighty and Eternal God,
So draw my heart to you,
So guide my mind,
So fill my imagination,
So control my will
That I may be completely devoted to you.
Then use me as you will:
Use me always for your glory
And the welfare of your people.
This I ask through Christ. Amen.


May this be realized in me today, Lord, as I work to bring the first portion of this process to completion. Amen, and amen!!!

the midday office

Direct me, O Lord, in all my doings with your most gracious favor, and further me with your continual help; that in all my work begun, continued, and ended in you, I may glorify your holy name...

I have written six chapters, three and a half of them in the last two days, and yet I still sit down to my computer every time with the fear that I will not be able to write.

Come, Lord, come! Chapter seven awaits!

evening compline

What a day. I have already informed my husband I am not ever coming home. Ever. I wrote for seven hours today, and I'm still sitting at my computer. I wrote two and a half chapters during this time, which means I have five out of eight completed. I am so excited I can't stand it.

We talked around the dinner table about the fear we must overcome to put words to paper. I felt that this morning, to be sure. The fear that I would sit down to write and nothing would come, and I would have set aside this time and paid this money and forgone a week of income for nothing. And though that fear was unfounded today, the fear remains for tomorrow. A fresh chapter, a fresh blank page. Will I be able to fill it? I can only attempt in my weakness to trust that God will use and direct that time as he sees fit.

I hope he sees fit to write another chapter.

morning prayer

Breakfast behind me, I return to my room, nervous and uncertain. I place my hands upon the keys—feel the wind though the window, hear the birds, the dogs, the motorcycles, sense the expectation in the air, in my body, in my spirit—and I wait.

Lord God, meet me here. In my quiet, in my typing, in my thinking, in my not-being-able-to-think. I invite—I implore—you to come.